Collide
by r3tro Roxel
Summary: Matt X Mello A shattered pair of goggles lying on the table, a red beaded rosary draped over it; this is life at it's finest.


Maybe he could have had a chance to live. Maybe he could have had a chance to reach his goals, even though he may not have had any beyond the simple task of being able to go through a single day without thinking about _him_. At least he didn't have to do that anymore. He was dying, that much anyone could tell.

Before the last bullet was shot to bleed him dry, you would wonder what his last thought was. Maybe he just got out of the car without realizing it, just an impulsive act that he didn't even think about. No one knew about his past, and that was the way he liked it. All his only friend knew- friend. How could _he_ be called a 'friend'? More like a boss. A boss would just be someone you knew and probably feared. But he didn't fear _him_. He knew that _he_ would never hurt his only worker. And that was all he did, really. He worked. He wasn't paid, he didn't enjoy it, but he worked; all to ease his never-ending boredom. The things someone will do for fun… it was ridiculous. But it was a stimulus. Maybe not the stimulus of choice for the average human, but a stimulus it was.

_He_ wasn't a friend, and _he_ wasn't an enemy. But _he_ wasn't simply an acquaintance, either. Somewhere between friend and acquaintance. Maybe while _he_ was caught up with the plan, the narrow line between friend and acquaintance may have opened up to make a crawl space for him to wriggle through and get a bit further. Just a bit.

Did_ he_ even know that he was dying right now? Would _he_ even care? The thought plagued his mind. You would think a boss wouldn't care very much if he were to fire one of his workers. But was he more than a worker? When he burst through that parking lot to fire the 'shot heard round the world' and then slammed on the gas, the wind wipping his hair around with tainted freedom, that something like that would be the last thing on his mind. But now, with the blurred forms of the shooters drifting in and out of his line of vision, it seemed all to think about. Felt like the first time he had ever thought in the last… how long had it been since he had started working for _him_? It felt like nothing, but he knew it had been near forever. He may not have known it, but he was simply a pawn in the plan, just another worker. But when he had slipped up earlier, he had been forgiven. Maybe _he_ just hadn't wanted him to die just yet. Maybe _he _wanted him to die here, now, being shot to death. Who knows?

Would _he_ apologize? This was part of the plan if things had gone wrong. But what could have gone wrong? Was He watching? Was He making judgment on them? But _he _didn't seem like the type to apologize. Had _he_ ever apologized? It didn't seem so. But with the little relationship they had had during his time of duty working for _him_, there had been contact. But none of it was friendly, not caring. But not brutal. I guess they knew they were going to die. They weren't trying to do something to remember. I guess everything they did that added up could barely amount to friendship was frantic, rushed, _desperate_. But does that mean_ he _wouldn't care?

I guess it all just adds up to the mysticism of their relationship. No one knows what may have happened (or not happened) between them, and I guess that's the way they wanted things to stay. But maybe when he found his only escape route to freedom, and dare I say, possible happiness, harshly blocked by what would become the metaphorical cars in his funeral procession; you wonder what he muttered under his breath. When he stepped out of the car in submission, surrendering himself to the authorities; only to be shot to death, you wonder what his last thought was. It was probably something along the lines of 'Fuck, this hurts like shit', but when the bullets tore through him, shredded his organs with a splatter of blood the only sign of it happening; maybe it was a name. Just one single name. The chances are slim, and the odds are against it, but there's still that little chance. Just like there was that little chance that he crossed over the boundary between worker and friend and snapped it in half, similar to an ever-familiar bar of chocolate. Maybe there never was a hole, maybe there was a locked safe that he had to crack the code to. And whether he got in or not we'll never know. Only they will. And as he lay dying on the pavement, the red water of his life ebbing around in him in little pools, if you looked closely, you might be able to see a smile on his face. He died happy, knowing his job was done. And as the heart attack wrenched it's way through _his _chest, you could see the fear and longing in his eyes. Longing for victory or something else? That question shall remain unanswered.

As the feathers of Heaven surrounded him on the street where he lay, he reached up and grasped a gloved hand. It felt good. He finally felt complete. The sick, twisted death march of their life played softly in the background, like elevator music, guiding them on their path up to the great gates in the sky. Their song isn't a lullaby, no sir. It's a remembrance of their shattered lives, pasted haphazardly together by the mere existence of the other. The tune is of an addiction, deadly and noxious. The rhythm's of a past, forgotten long ago. The beat is of a gunshot, shooting loud and clear and far. As they dance to their deaths with the thought of each other in their heads, watch them; watch them run and laugh and smile and hide and cry and _live_.


End file.
